“Blast!” said Arvid. “I’d hoped this was the first wave.”
Paks said nothing, fighting her way forward a step at a time. She was beginning to use the longsword more freely, with effect. Another man went down before her, and those behind seemed less eager to engage. But the noise in the passage was considerable. Ambros was yelling Girdish slogans, as was the yeoman; each had now defeated his man, and they were back in line. The clash of steel rang from the walls.
Then the torches went out as if they’d been dipped in water. Paks felt something rake across her torso; the mail held. She thrust hard ahead of her, and heard someone grunt, then sigh. She shook the weight off her blade and thrust again. Nothing.
“Arvid?” she asked.
“Here.” His voice beside her was calm. She wasn’t. Ambros cursed, off to Arvid’s right. Paks could hear heavy breathing in front of them somewhere. She moved forward a step, and her boot landed on something soft and moving. She kicked, hard, and stepped back.
“Light,” said Ambros testily. She could hear the scrape of flint and steel, but saw no spark.
“You want light, servant of Gird?” came a silky voice out of the dark ahead. “I thought you Girdsmen claimed the knowledge of lightspells.”
Paks tried again to move toward the voice, but Arvid grabbed her arm. She froze in place. She could sense that he was fumbling in his cloak. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could tell that somewhere around the bend torches were still burning—vague shapes stood out against that dim glow. She could not tell how many. If they were reloading crossbows—if they had spears—we’re crazy to stand here, she thought, like sheep in a chute. With a wild yell, she jumped forward, a standing leap that took her to the first of the dark shapes. She heard Arvid’s curse, the others jumping after her. Her sword clashed against another, suddenly glowing blue. She heard other weapons striking, and pressed her own opponent hard by instinct, since she could scarcely see. She felt a blow on her shoulder, and another on the ribs. Her own blade flickered, a dancing blue gleam that lit only its target. Something raked her free hand, burning like fire or ice. She shook it, still fencing.
Their surprise attack brought them around the turn of the passage, over bodies now crumpled beneath the fighters. Ahead was a short hall with a door to the right. Against the golden glow from that door stood a tall, slender robed figure. They were within four paces of it, when that same smooth voice spoke, a word Paks had not heard before. Her muscles slackened, as if she had been hit in the head; she nearly dropped her sword. Arvid fell back a pace. Even Ambros stopped where he was, and dropped the tip of his blade. The defenders leaped forward.
“Gird!” cried Ambros, in that instant. Paks felt her body come alive again; she covered Arvid’s side with a desperate lunge, and took a glancing blow on her helmet. Suli pushed past Arvid, throwing a quick glance at Paks, and lunged at the man before her. Paks had time to notice that she was indeed quick, and quite good. Then the defenders retreated past the door, and turned to run. Paks faced the doorway. It was empty.
Within, the steady glow of lamplight revealed a chamber hung with rich tapestries in brilliant colors. In the center of the chamber stood a handsome young man in long black velvet robes edged with black fur. He smiled at them, and held out empty hands.
“Don’t you think you’re being discourteous?” he asked. His voice was mellow as old ale. “It is friendlier to announce oneself, don’t you think?”
“You—!” began Ambros. Paks noticed Suli edging forward and plucked at her sleeve. Suli turned, frowning, but obeyed when Paks gestured her back. “Spawn of Achrya,” Ambros went on. The man laughed easily.
“Alas, young sir yeoman-marshal of Gird, I am not Achrya’s spawn—if I were, you might have found another welcome. ’Tis true I have done her some service, but—what is that to thee?”
“I am the yeoman-marshal—”
“Yes, of Brewersbridge. This is not Brewersbridge. This is my keep, and you have broken in, attacking and killing my men—and you are not even the Marshal. It’s not your grange.”
“It is. It was left in my care. And you—corrupting men, robbing caravans, killing and looting—Gird’s teeth, it’s my business!” Ambros took a step forward, toward the doorway.
“So you really think a yeoman-marshal of Gird is a match for me? Or are you relying on your muscle-bound women for protection?” Suli lunged forward, and Paks caught her in the midriff with a stiff elbow. Suli gasped, and Paks spoke over her shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool, he’s trying to anger us. Stay back.”
The man looked directly at her. Something about his gaze warned her, and she dropped her eyes to his neck. “My,” he said sweetly, “a wise head rules that magic sword. Perhaps you are not what you seem, eh? I had heard of a strange lady swordfighter in Brewersbridge—a veteran of Phelan’s company, they said, who left because she would not see evil done. Is that you, then?” Paks fought back a surge of rage that roared in her ears and threatened to haze her vision. “Defeated that elven mage, and freed the elfane taig, that’s what I heard. Near enough a paladin, I should think—not a Girdsman yet, what a shame—if, that is, you defeat me. Do you think to defeat me, pretty one?”
This too Paks ignored, keeping her attention on his neck. She thought how she would like to sink her sword in it. But she heard what he said. Near enough a paladin? The thought beckoned, like a finger in the mist. But Arvid spoke up, having regained his position beside her.
“You, sir, seem to have some power of enchantment, or why do we stand here speaking to you? For me, I would see your blood on that handsome rug, and put an end to such delay.” He moved forward a handsbreadth and stopped, as if he’d hit a wall.
“Enchantments? Yes, indeed. And, since you’ve robbed me of robbers and guards alike, I’m in need of servants. You, I believe, will do nicely. And the women; Achrya will be pleased if I interfere in the growth of a paladin of Gird. I hope, indeed, to convert all of you. How pleasant it will be to have spies in the grange of Brewersbridge.”
“No! By Gird!” Ambros leaped forward, sword high. Paks shook herself, suddenly alert to her musings, and followed him. She was not surprised to see a sword appear in the man’s hand, a dagger in the other. Ambros met the sword with his own, narrowly missing a dagger thrust. Paks came in on the Achryan’s sword side. She turned his blade and thrust. Her blade seemed to stick in his robes; she jerked it free with an effort. Meanwhile his blade had raked her shoulder. She could feel the links of mail along that track.
No one else came to join them. As the priest of Achrya turned, Paks had time for a quick glance back. The others stood motionless, clearly unable to break free. Meanwhile the priest fought superbly, sweeping away their blades again and again. It seemed impossible to wound him. Every thrust that Paks thought went home caught in his robes, and he fought on unhindered. She did not notice that he worked them toward a corner of the room where dark blue velvet rose behind a carved black chair. He backed, backed again, turned, and grabbed for the chair arm. Paks, hearing a rustle above, jerked back and looked upward. A tangled mass of black webbing fell down, catching her off-balance. Where it touched her clothes, they turned black, charring. She slashed at the cords, her sword hissing as it sliced them. But they were tough and sticky; she could not free herself quickly.
Ambros had jumped forward, a long lunge at the priest, and the web caught only one foot. Before the priest could strike, he had cut himself free. Now they fought behind the chair, great sweeps of sword parting the air and ringing together.